Villainous

Suppose you were shamed and ridiculed? Cast out like a demon, accused like a witch? Suppose they took everything from you, burned everything, killed everything - and then gave you a chance to get it back?
It's fate, of course. Who am I to deny the destiny placed before me? I'm not a villain, my revenge is well-sanctioned. I'm not evil. I'm the Hero. It is time I came home. It's time I claimed my reward.
It's been a long journey.
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I'm not a bad person. Despite any rumours or stories circulating,
I can assure you I'm not nearly so bad as they sound. Sure, I
live deep in the Darkwood, hidden in mystic shadows and magic
mists. So what if I prefer to remain shrouded in mystery, lost to
the world? I'm none of its business anyway.
My story begins herein, surrounded by things like me, I suppose.
Not evil, just misunderstood. My homely Ruins. A place to cook up
a new recipe for rain or fashion a fresh species of frog. Perhaps
you've guessed it. I'm a witch.
That's why they cast me out. Of course, I wasn't a witch, but
does it really matter? To adapt to the forest, I had to accept
its mysteries. The trees seep black magic from every pore in
their bark. If you can attribute magic as "black" or "white". One
man's poison's another man's porridge, after all. Just like a
single brew of mine can kill a man but make another immortal.
It's more about the ingredients of the man than the brew.
I'll use any ingredient I find useful. No matter how impossible
to collect or control, every herb or root has a weakness - to the
cold, or saltwater, music, or silver. And I'm excellent at
finding weaknesses. I found all of my own and made them into
strengths. I can live forever, eternally in the blossom of youth.
I never hunger nor thirst, yet may eat and drink to my delight. I
am the Queen of the Darkwood, and the plants are my subjects. Not
that I don't do my share.
Each morning I get up as, I imagine, the dawn is breaking in the
citadel of Erlommen. The thick, brackish trees block any sunlight
from my Ruins, but the Moonwood trees begin to glow soft silver
moonlight as the sun rises over them. It's said their pale green
leaves soak in the moonlight each night so that it shines out the
branches and barkeach day. As they begin to softly glow, I gather
fresh herbs and plants and sing to the buds so that they will
grow. Don't you see, I'm not at all mean or brutish as they say.
Perhaps I'm not as darling as my complexion, nor as sweet as the
sonatas I whisper to the rosebushes. But not at all a bad person.
I am writing this now in hopes that you will understand me, as
I'm about to give reason to doubt. But you will see, I'm being
perfectly just.
Tomorrow, I will poison the King.